


A Balcony Over Loch Nora

by ierackus



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Angst, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Letters, M/M, Pen Pals, Post-Season/Series 02, Rating May Change, Self-Hatred, Soft Billy Hargrove, all the glories of middle school drama, and teenage boys being their classy selves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:33:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ierackus/pseuds/ierackus
Summary: Thoughts of his pen pal kept Steve Harrington sane, despite losing touch years ago. Hopefully his best friend’s life hasn’t gone to hell like his with all the girl problems, growing up, and Upside Down drama. But he never thought he’d get a card saying William was moving back to Hawkins.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 19
Kudos: 90





	1. The Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> Long time Harringrove lurker finally getting around to contributing to this awesome community. Not beta read, but edited with the fury of a self-conscious dork. Hope you enjoy!

As possible redemption to an especially shitty and silent day, Steve’s mood shifted with the blink of the answering machine. He tripped over his backpack and tracked his snow-covered sneakers over his mother’s beloved white carpet to hit the rewind button.

  
“Hey there sport,” his dad’s forced voice echoed over the recording. “I hear someone turns the big one-seven today, wait…”

  
His mother’s shrill cry could be heard in the background accompanied by a hand over the receiver.

  
“What do you mean he’s eighteen?” his father mumbled. “Well, now we can start charging him rent.”

  
His mother squealed again.

  
“I mean, eighteen. Happy 18th birthday, Stevie. When we get back, we can start having some talks on being a real man. But your mom and I are sorry we can’t take you out tonight. When we get back we can go to Pizza King. You always liked that place, right?”

  
When he was ten? At least his dad wasn’t offering a strip club like Tommy’s father.

  
“Anyway, your mom and I left your birthday card in my desk. The accordion file for December, I think it’s in there. I also put some extra cards your grandparents sent. And I think your cousin Susan sent one? I don’t know, but our card is in there. Don’t spend it all in one place champ! Feel free to call us at the hotel after five, but not after six because we have a dinner...well, we’ll be in touch. Have a good one, Steve-o!”

  
Steve tried to remember which cousin was Susan so he didn’t have to confirm if there was an “I love you” shoved in the message or not. He busied himself with finding his dad’s file before assuming he meant the burgundy box conveniently labeled “Steven”. It was spelled “ph”, but that’s expecting too much of the old man.

  
The dividers were labeled for each month, so he raided December for the collection of cards. There were five, but one bright red envelope warned him not to open before Christmas, a whopping four days away. The joys of being born so close to Christmas always meant competing with the school’s break schedule if he could even get friends left in town for a party. Except today they were all in school. He just didn’t have friends this time.

  
Well, yes, he had friends. Good ones, _real_ friends to always be there for him. But he wasn’t about to go whining today was his birthday when an impending supernatural apocalypse was hanging out in the back of their minds. Birthdays, Steve’s especially, felt like the exact bullshit Nancy abhorred.

  
At least he had cards. He put the Christmas one away and wondered if his parents would even be back in time. Curious, he checked the other folders. He had Valentine’s, Easter, and even a graduation card on stand-by. His parents had faith in him passing high school after all. Back to the others, sure enough both pairs of grandparents sent cards postmarked months earlier. He was more fascinated with the unique Floridian and Italian stamps. A fleeting curiosity wondered if William still collected stamps.

  
If he didn’t, Steve probably looked like an idiot for rescuing as many as he did from his dad’s trash. But not as big as an idiot as Steve was for thinking of his old friend. The last letter was for Steve’s 15th birthday, and it took him a good year to realize William wasn’t going to answer him back no matter how many letters were mailed out. They never missed a birthday. Sixteen came and went with nothing to show.

  
Steve dwelled on the dismal fade-out longer than his split with Nancy. Not that the break-up didn’t peck at his abandonment issues, but Nancy wasn’t the name on all of the unsent letters on his desk.

  
Having already pilfered the cash and checks out of the first three cards, Steve stopped his brooding to stare at the empty one. Had Nana remembered the chin whisker incident after all and finally cut him off? No, this wasn’t even a birthday card. The cover read “Our sincerest sympathies in your time of loss.”

  
Nana finally lost it.

  
Except the card came out of a baby blue envelope with a Californian address from a Susan H. Curious as much as confused, Steve studied the hasty cursive within.

_Steve,_

  
_I’m sorry for the stupid card. The old man doesn’t post letters unless he thinks my step-mom is sending them. I don’t even know if you’ll get this. I know I haven’t written in a long time. A lot has happened, but I get it if you don’t want to hear it. I can tell you all about it in person. If you wanted. We’re moving back to Hawkins. I know, I kind of hate it. It’s probably my fault for moving, but I guess a lot of things are my fault, too. I’ll be there this semester, maybe a little later. I hope you’re still there. ~~I miss you~~. Maybe we can catch up?_

_William_

He nearly joined his backpack on the floor. Steve reread the note again and twice more to be sure, but he knew that handwriting. He knew the tone, and he could perfectly picture the one holding the pen. William was a small, stout kid with cropped blonde hair doing nothing to conceal his protruding ears and coke-can glasses. His nose was buttoned and often wrinkled when Steve made some stupid comment. In the moments Steve wondered why the hell someone so smart hung out with him, William’s bright blue eyes betrayed amusement. He always said he was the Samwise to Steve’s Frodo. Steve was dorky enough to know he was more of a Pippin.

  
Whenever William did arrive at Hawkins High, he wasn’t going to find anything remarkable, only a loser stuck in the past. If he moved back last year, he’d think Steve made something of himself. He’d even be in their demo-hunting group. The idea gave the first genuine bit of happiness all day: picturing an Anthony Micheal Hall type yelling at Steve’s Michael Schoeffling for killing a Demogorgon the wrong way.

  
The elation quickly erased with self-doubt. William stopped writing for a reason. The calls were too expensive, but they used to knock a couple letters out a month for a good two years despite his parents’ prediction. William was different, Steve protested. He was there far more than his parents cared to be.

  
They casually knew each other from the daycare William’s mother worked with. The Harrington’s weren’t about to encourage Steve on playdates outside of well-to-do Loch Nora, especially with some poor kid with only his mom around. But come time for his eighth birthday party, all of his little friends were already out of town. William was the only one to show. The inseparability since was obvious, but young Steve never accounted for the inevitable change.

  
William’s mom was going to finally marry his father. Everyone seemed thrilled by the idea save Steve. But he was a kid. He didn’t know anything about love or not having a dad. William didn’t mind moving to California, and he promised he’d always write Steve. That he wouldn’t forget him in this shitty town.

  
He sent this card, didn’t he? And he wanted to see Steve. All this time Steve assumed the years of silence were his fault. That William wised up to what a loser he was. He never stopped to wonder if there was a different story. Steve would still be William’s friend in an instant. He had one semester to reconnect and recover a bit of what they used to be. Perhaps he could give him the letters he never sent? To help catch him up? Minus one or two discussing some personal, _sexual_ revelations that would scare the kid off.

  
Those letters were stuffed away in the tree house. The idea of going back out to the cold sucked, but it’s not like he didn’t plan to spend his weekend alone smoking and getting drunk out there. Like every other weekend. He hadn’t even shed his winter coat from school, so why not start the party of one early? He shoved the card into his pocket and fumbled for the scotch his dad _thought_ was well hidden in the bureau.

Behind his house, he could see the well worn path through the snow into the woods. The subdivision butted up against the forest. Right at the border, an old deer blind was built into a large oak tree. As Steve was the only kid left in the subdivision, he still frequented the place. He stopped his hike at the sight of new footprints.

  
Already a cautious step, he slowed down and crouched low. The footprints came from the subdivision’s entrance and went to the ladder of the tree house. Steve cursed himself for not bringing his bat. It was likely a stoner, _not_ a demo-creature, discovered his hiding place, but chasing them off with a bat was a satisfying thought. The closer he got, the better he could hear the creaks of the unwanted guest’s clomping about the tree fort. And bad hair metal. They found his boombox and were blaring shitty music!

  
Emboldened, Steve made for the thick tree trunk and scaled up the alternative route to his hideout. He only slipped on the branches a couple times without drawing the attention of the intruder. He moved to the closed window hatch and met with a cloud of smoke. Holding back a cough, he peered in a small gap. The old camp lantern hanging from the rafters was lit, casting a warm glow over his one bit of sanctuary.

  
He and William commandeered this place after the HOA said they didn’t care and to stop bothering them at meetings about it. Don’t litter or fall out and sue them. It was the one place Steve could escape his constant loneliness and William his dramatic home life. They did their due diligence and painted “No Girls Allowed” on the door before restoring the rest of the place. It was a simple plywood box with grandiose plans of a star-gazing balcony and running a power cord out for some Christmas lights. Steve had done all that and more in some misguided hope it would impress William enough to come back.

  
As his eyes adjusted to the dim light through the gap, he discovered the denim-clad back of a jerk who didn’t care about Midwestern winters. That should have been his first hint, but it took the mess of blond hair, heavy boots, and far too flattering of jeans to place the intruder. Billy Hargrove.

  
Because why wouldn’t it be that asshole? Any other kid Steve would have chased off, but he didn’t want his obituary listing his birth and death date as the same. Coward he may be, he rather let the prick smoke and leave. At least he wasn’t rummaging around.

  
Like he knew what he was doing, Billy went over to the makeshift desk and picked up an old cookie tin. _Shit._ His fingers hesitated at a collection of framed photos of the young Steve and William before pilfering the tin. He was met with the abhorrent amount of letters, Steve’s most sacred collection. He tried to remain calm. They were childhood notes, nothing incriminating. As long as Billy didn’t find the pack of unsent letters in the shoebox or the stash of pornos under the bean bag, Steve was in the clear.

  
And those damn toned and tanned hands danced across the desk right to the shoebox. Steve covered his flushing face in embarrassment and nearly lost his grip. The bottle of booze slipped free and hit the roots below with a loud thunk. The noise pulled Billy briefly out of his scavenging. His face spun towards the ground, exposing his perplexed face as he listened closer. He turned the dial down on the boombox, stepping even closer to Steve’s hiding place. He wanted to turn away as if it would conceal him better, but he was captured by Billy looking right at him. Those blue eyes flitted away, seeing nothing and going back to exploring.

  
He hated himself for it, but Steve always was captivated by that jerk’s stare. He forgot eyes could be so blue. Despite what windows poets claimed eyes to be, Steve was confident only a shallow dickhead existed in that soul. But he liked the way his pulse raced when those eyes found him. They found him too much. Maybe it was a Californian trait to stare, but it stirred something Billy would beat Steve into a pulp for. Again. He rather not have any feelings other than contempt for the bully, but at least Steve felt something. He was afraid the Upside Down took that away from him.

  
Distracted, he went back to watching as Billy took the box of letters right over to the bean bag. _Double shit._ The teen cautiously removed the lid like he was Indiana Jones and a trap was about to ensnare him. Or he found the earth’s most priceless treasure. The building emotion caught in Steve’s throat erupted from Billy. As soon as the lid moved aside, his eyes surged with tears. He choked back a sob as his fingers found the dozens and dozens of letters tucked within. He buried his devastated face into his palms and made no attempt to stop his grief.

  
He wanted to hate Billy for intruding in the last bit of reprieve Steve hid away, but all aggression faded away. As dumb as he thought himself to be, Steve at least knew he was witnessing something profound. Something whispering those letters addressed to a lost kid finally fell to hands needing them the most.


	2. The Asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First all, thank you for all of the kind comments!  
> I feel bad for the Steve Harrington Pain Train, but I'm a sucker for angst. On that note, time to hear Billy's side of things. Certainly this won't be angsty, noooooo.

He never forgot the date. Everyone at school was chomping at the bit to start break and likely already wished Steve “Happy Birthday”. All Billy wanted was courage to stride across the tiled floor and say it. Steve would give the usual unconcerned shrug, maybe flick his tongue across his lips, and go back to ignoring him. Or he would stumble away terrified of the psycho who beat his face in. Steve not reacting at all would be far worse. 

Pretending to fuss with his hair in the locker’s mirror, Billy angled the door to study Steve's reflection. He sat on the furthest bench toying with the idea of a shower, deep eyes hollow to the world surrounding. The vacant, forlorn gaze had no place on Steve’s face. This kid was going to kill Billy’s perfectly good grudge. 

If he wished Steve well, it could be the change between them. A small bit of peace in a fraught relationship. What would it hurt? If he didn’t recognize Billy yet, he never would. Sighing deeply to puff out his chest and forging a confident smile, he spun to face Steve. 

No one recognized him. _William_ was nothing remarkable when he left, so he vowed to be something this go around. Someone worthy of Steve’s attention. He certainly didn’t appear the same. Apparently contacts were as effective as the hokey movies say? Or it could have been as simple as the new name and the lie of confidence. He still wasn’t good enough for Steve.

 _Just fucking say it,_ his conscious screamed as he sauntered over. Steve flinched, double taking at Billy’s skimpy towel and toned muscles damp from the shower. He pointedly glowered in a different direction, and Billy reveled in the reaction. _At least he noticed something,_ he thought while casually flexing against the lockers.

“Hey pretty boy,” he drawled. Before “Happy Birthday” slipped out, Steve snapped his fixed jaw up. He raised a scarred eyebrow and his dark eyes smouldered with challenge. Accepting this scrap of attention, Billy lowered close enough to feel Steve’s anticipating breath. 

A bony hand dug into his shoulder and yanked Billy aside.

“Harrington, you got any plans tonight or you too cool for us again?” Tommy’s grating voice squeaked. Billy squinted and staved his anger with imagining Tommy’s demise. Thinking of obscure ways to smite that loser was his second favorite thing to fantasize over. 

“Oh…” Steve’s fire faded to nothingness. “I’ll hit up Jenny's party later.”

Steve never used to lie, but these days Billy was hard pressed to find an honest reaction. Why the hell did King Steve need to lie about his perfect little life?

“You better. Miss Priss isn’t here to tell you what to do anymore.”

“Yeah, time to stop turning bitch,” Steve added for Billy’s benefit with a loathsome glare. The corners of Billy's masking smile fumbled, and he turned away before caught. The moment was ruined. To make himself feel better, he ditched Tommy’s jeans in the showers. It was easier to blame that cretin than admit the fault he created.

In the parking lot, he buried his guilt in the steering column as Max met him after AV club. He tossed her the key to the trunk, stole a quick glance at Steve with his pet middle-schooler, and went back to sulking. Normally the curly-haired one could get an earnest laugh from Steve, but the same somberness followed from practice. Since their reunion, he knew something was amiss. Steve would have trusted William enough to speak up, but Billy made sure to torch that ship long before it came to blows. It never meant he stopped caring.

Max hopped into the passenger seat and handed over a wrapped package.

“I didn’t want my equipment to smash this.”

He hadn’t spoken a single word to her since the _incident._ How do you follow up “I threatened your boyfriend and you stabbed me in the neck with a tranq”? He should write her a letter, he thought with humorless snort. 

“Who’s birthday is it? The tag only said ‘To: Idiot’.”

How did she not know it was her beloved babysitter’s birthday? He focused on the Beemer leaving the parking lot before turning over the Camaro’s engine.

It never sat right to not get Steve a gift. Their whole spiel started over birthdays. Billy didn’t dare send them, but they survived the move. Cassettes and used copies of Lord of the Rings. He left them in his trunk for that _just in case_ he always ran from. The gift stayed on his lap while Max remained in deep contemplation.

“This town is weird, you know that, right? Stuff no one talks about,” Max interjected out of nowhere. “It’s consuming. It’s hard to remember things that happened. The good things. So let’s say someone didn’t recognize a good thing came back, it’s not because they don’t care. They just are so used to all of the bad it takes a lot longer to notice...especially if they’re kind of a ditz.”

She was smart, too smart, and nosy to boot. She kept quiet about Billy’s less than glamorous Hawkin’s origin, but the shitbird definitely would have discovered the scattered letters in his room by now. He’d be disappointed if she hadn’t. 

“I think you’re a prick…” she nibbled at her cheek, “But that’s because I’m not an _idiot_. Someone who didn’t know any better and was more forgiving, maybe someone who knew you really well, I think they’d still want to talk to you. No matter what you did.”

Yeah, she totally read some letters. When Billy peered over, she pretended a streetlamp was the most interesting sight in the world.

“You know me well enough to know why I can’t.”

Taken aback by his returned voice, she scrunched up her button nose and elbowed his forearm. Shit, she was all bone and sharp edges.

“If you, I don’t know, stopped being an asshole and apologized, I might not hate you so much.” A small grin peeked out from the red tendrils of hair concealing her face. Something similar to admiration settled in his throat.

He told Max he was going to a party he had every intention of crashing. But Jenny K’s neighborhood was on Spruce Street and if he was already going out there, he might as well follow it down to the T and it was only a few short blocks until you were on that one side road...and who was he kidding? Jenny lived nowhere near Steve but Billy’s muscle memory drove him there. Those gifts always took up room in his trunk and conscience. He could dump them on Steve’s porch. No, too many witnesses. Perhaps the tree fort was still up?

There was a fun idea. He never checked if the hovel survived. If it wasn’t scraps of plywood under the leaves and snow, he’d have a smoke there to say he tried. It wasn’t his fault if Steve abandoned the place. Sending the card was his olive branch, his mistake for hoping. Seeing the tree house would be closure to the rejection. Something like that. 

He began a new cigarette before ditching the Camaro, trying to muster up the courage to approach the woods. When the car cooled too much to be comfortable, he dragged his boots every step. He could make out the faint outline of the structure through barren trees. The setting sun revealed the fort was in far better condition than he left it. And if that was a fucking balcony over on the side, Billy had half the mind to throw himself off it. 

Of course King Steve kept up the tree house. He likely used it for all of his other friends or to sneak girls up or even let those stupid middle-schoolers have. But no one was there now, so Billy tossed the gifts into a bucket with a pulley. His invention. Steve would have maimed himself long ago attempting to bring supplies up the ladder. At least Billy had some use in Steve’s life. He settled into the fort decked out far better than he could get his bedroom arranged. There was a desk, two bean bags, and a nest of blankets Billy bristled to imagine the intention of. 

“No girls allowed, idiot,” he hissed as he lit a red camp lantern. The light exposed Steve’s obsession further as the place was painted and had rugs and curtains. Fucking curtains. Bad pop band posters littered the walls, save a section for their Polaroids and pictures. No wonder no one recognized Billy. The bespectacled baby-face always by young Steve’s side was a different life all together. Not ready to tap into the surmounting ache in his chest, Billy settled in with a poorly hidden bottle of whisky and his newest mix-tape in the stereo.

 _This changed_ _nothing,_ Billy forced himself to accept with the bitter inhale of nicotine. Nostalgia failed to excuse Steve’s dismissal. 

In California, when it got too difficult, Billy stopped opening Steve's letters. They sat in a shoebox until the envelopes quit arriving a year later. It’s what needed to happen. For both of their sake. 

Once he was weak and curiosity won. It wasn’t when he was busted with a boy from school, or when his father screamed the move was final at his collapsed body. It was as he packed his meager belongings that he realized there was only one box he truly needed. He finally opened Steve’s letters. Where he expected disappointment and rejection, Steve blathered on like life was the same. Even with the final letter.

_12-17-82_

_Hey William,_

_It's that time of year again where you bribe me into friendship with gifts and telling me I'm pretty. Just fucking with you. Please_ _never_ _do that._

_I don't even know if you get these letters anymore. I hope you're okay. ~~I hope you're not mad at me.~~ Truth is it's getting really hard mailing these out when I know it won't change anything. There's a lot I still want to tell you about, but I don't want to bother you if you've got a lot going on. This shit happens. _

_If you need anything, write back, okay? Or you can call me. Anytime. I'll always be down to catch up. And if you're ever back in Hawkins, the tree house is looking great (it's the balcony). I hope I'll see you again._

_Take care man,_

_Steve_

Shame Steve changed his mind about his offer.

The stress of the move and Max’s constant bitching was staved by this damn hope someone waited in this hick town. As soon as Billy could breathe from the trek east, needy classmates overwhelmed him with attention. He resented them so much he was desperate to win their approval. It was a backwards way to be, but it was revenge. Not loneliness. Probably.

The parties, the sports teams, the _women_ he subjected himself to in futile attempts to cross paths at least added to his popularity. It sounded better as high school hierarchy and not a pathetic attempt to be found. Steve was a grade above and immune to past fame. Joking whispers in the hallways alluded to Steve's fall, the sort of stuff Billy refused to believe. He scripted thousands of interactions for their reunion, but should have considered sobriety a requirement.

At Halloween as he took a victorious scan of the spoils of keg-stand based warfare, his blurred vision settled on one face. It wasn’t recognition, just drunken prompting to approach the enigma across the room. He didn’t catch Tommy drop the name. The moment those sunglasses lifted away, Billy knew. Steve blinked and Billy’s breath hesitated, hope still proclaiming a chance existed. Steve looked right through, finding no one of worth.

Self-loathing could only go so far before lashing out. How could Steve not know him by now? The other classmates, fine, they weren’t Steve. They didn’t matter. Which could only mean Billy was relegated beyond Steve’s capacity to care. _Billy_ didn’t matter. Any effort was spat back with painful indifference until Billy’s rage manifested with bitter words and bloodied knuckles. He wasn't being rejected, Billy told himself with every strike. 

Back in the tree house, alcohol bested Billy again when he pinpointed the items on Steve’s desk. The first wrenching find was all of the sent letters filled to the edge of a cookie tin. On the top and the most crumpled was Billy’s last letter. How many times did Steve scour Billy’s words trying to puzzle what happened? Hopefully he didn’t blame himself.

Absent was the card about Billy's return. All these thoughts of rejection hinged on what he forgot to consider: Steve never got that damn card. 

To double check, he raided the shoebox. He stumbled over, only wavering when a strange sound erupted outside. Nothing followed. It must have been a branch rotting off or something. He went back to his task of nosing around Steve’s shit. More letters. Steve’s unsent letters to him. The last one was from this month.

"You _asshole,"_ Billy hissed when the epiphany came.

Steve still wanted to be his friend. This whole tree house was a shrine to his loyalty. It was Billy's damn stubbornness to ignore it any longer.

There were the obvious reasons Billy was so combative with Steve. The whole needing him to be the bad guy. The rich kid who had a better life without another thought of his white trash pen pal. The liar who hid Max. The friendship Billy, _not_ Steve, threw away. This was his choice, and _he_ didn’t want Steve now just like he didn’t want Steve three years ago.

Billy stopped writing back. 

No use denying it further. No one made him choose. Neil told him he was wasting stamps, but he never told Billy to stop. It was the one tolerable part of his parenting. At least he had that and the new last name as some positive attribute. Neil was awful, but he was all Billy had left and deserved, right?

The silence wasn’t because he was weak or scared of being turned away first. And it wasn’t because he was a dick who couldn’t care less. He stopped writing Steve Harrington because of a damn family Christmas card and the realization of something Billy could _never_ have.

All he could bring himself to do was sob. A piece of his soul broke, but he couldn’t tell if it fell away or finally aligned in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied. Only angst. Next chapter will be fluffier, promise.


	3. The Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you for the comments! The support has been exciting! 
> 
> This chapter is my favorite because I got to flex my Hoosier roots and poke fun at my alma mater. Some of theses things actually happened at my middle/high school. 
> 
> I think these boys need a little more fluff before returning to form. Hope you enjoy!

**~1979~**

The stolen first aid kit spilled across the floor as he sifted through the motley sizes of band-aids. Finding the largest size, William brought it over to the cleaned scuff at Steve's knee. The floor of the tree house looked like a game of Operation tossed over in inevitable frustration, but it never was the pinnacle of cleanliness. 

“Are you up on all your shots? I don’t want you dying of lockjaw while I’m gone.”

Making a point not to meet William’s face, Steve scrunched up his nose and stared at a particularly interesting branch out the window. 

“Yeah, well maybe I should get rabies and die horribly and it will be all your fault, asshole.”

“You can’t get rabies from a nail, idiot.”

“Why do you care!” Steve whipped his head back around, his shag haircut filled with leaves and a twig. He smacked William’s prying hands away, but his wrist was caught with a strength he’d never assumed the nerd possessed.

“You fell out of the tree, Steve! You could have hit your head and had your brains explode everywhere or you could have impaled yourself on a branch and then the cops are going to know it’s my fault!”

“Told you it was your fault,” Steve mumbled. 

“That one cop Hopper has it out for me. Me! It was _one_ book.”

William wasn’t the normal face lining the station’s wanted photos. While Steve was shooting up like a weed and ever the hopeful for his lucrative basketball star life, William could have a promising future as a jockey. Steve had no qualms teasing the pipsqueak now, but he worried William would someday be strong enough to whoop his ass. It was worth it. If Steve wasn’t the one building up the rage in those vivid blue eyes, could he truly be called a friend?

Maybe he should have toned it down and tried not to annoy the shit out of William. Maybe he wouldn’t be moving away.

“Chief Hopper just doesn’t like when your dad comes to town.”

“No one does,” William grumbled and slapped the band-aid in place. Hard. Steve winced and tried to shove free.

“Then why are you going to live with him? Can’t you stay with your grandma?”

“I don’t know, Steve. Stop asking me!” William flicked at the injury to piss Steve off more. “Why didn’t you use the ladder?”

“Because you locked the door and wouldn’t talk to me, jerk!”

“No, you did it because you’re stupid! You always do bullshit like this without thinking! But it always works out for you!” William felt his eyes sting with those damning tears his father berated him for. He pushed away from Steve and pretended to busy himself with the first aid kit. He’d grown too familiar with using one. “I know it’s dumb, Steve. But my mom is happy, and my dad likes his job in California. He’s happy there. I kind of like it, too. It doesn’t have stupid weather like this.”

Outside a rain, snow, and slush bastardization pelted around them. 

“If you could go travel with your mom and dad, you’d do that, too. Right?”

“No, because they only talk about boring work shit or drink. Your dad is going to be just as mean in nice weather, you know?”

Of course William knew. He was always happier when his dad was gone. Even more so when it was only him and Steve. But as he grew older, something felt off. He was too fucked up, and he felt better when people were yelling at him. The good times with Steve were something different. Something beyond stability and acceptance. He was drowning in open air and he had to claw his way out. Away from Steve. 

They were twelve. How do you even begin to tell your best friend all of this when you don’t understand it either?

“I have to try, Steve. But it doesn’t always have to be like this. Maybe we can come back on vacations, or you can fly out to visit me? We could even write to each other?”

“Why would I want to write you?” Steve spat, not caring if it wounded. 

“I don’t know. You could tell me how much you hate me or something?”

_* * *_

Learning to regret packing all of his books in a single large box, William used every bit of his not-a-cuss-word vocabulary to drag the crate to his room. His mother in her loose sundress and cautious smile walked by him and waved an envelope rescued from the letter slot.

“Look sweetie, you’re getting mail already!”

William frowned as he recognized that jumbled handwriting.

“Thanks, momma,” he tried to be positive as he snatched the envelope away. He opened it in front of her with a fake grin while she waited with misplaced anticipation. 

“Who is it from?”

“Oh, just Steve Harrington. He’s checking in to see if we made it safe,” he gritted through clinched teeth. Content, his mother left to organize the other letters. Fighting every urge to ball the note up, William scanned it again.

_11-18-79_

_Dear Asshole,_

_I hope you got a flat tire on your drive and got kidnapped by hippies and sold for drugs. And not the scary stuff Mr. Perkins talked about. Just ditch weed._

_I took a girl up into the tree house and we totally got to third base. I saw her bra and I got it off with one hand. Twice. And she said the way you decorated the place was stupid and my idea for a balcony was great and physically possible._

_Screw you,_

_Steve_

_* * *_

“And if you use a little bit of the hand soap, that should help the wood to not splint when you screw the parts in. Does that answer your question?” Mr. Watkins at the hardware store rattled off as Steve raced to write notes on his receipt. "You're not building this outside, right? In this weather?"

Conveniently evading the question, Steve asked, “Does the soap need to be the type that leaves your hands soft or can it be antibacterial?”

“Steve, I have other customers. Go get your dad or that one little friend of yours to help you out.” As soon as he uttered the words, Mr. Watkins felt guilty. The kid’s Bambi eyes didn’t help. “Antibacterial's fine.”

He perked back up again to the store owner’s relief. 

“Awesome! Thank you, Mr. Watkins! I’ll get right to work! I’ll see you next time!”

The old man cursed under his breath, but Steve was too happy with his new collection of screws and nails to care. He shoved the receipt into his back pocket next to a recent letter courtesy of the golden state. 

_Dec. 3rd, 1979_

_Dear Idiot,_

_Go ahead. Build the balcony. I hope you and the bimbo fall off it and die._

_Do you even know any girls?_

_And the hippies were actually a sex cult so I already got to third base with two girls at the SAME time and it was definitely before you did._

_Eat shit,_

_William_

_* * *_

The rain in San Diego was warm without a lick of Hawkin’s “sleet” crap. Winter came and went with no snowflakes in sight. And even if the storms lasted longer, there weren’t tornado warnings constantly blaring. William would have taken the extra bit of noise if it meant drowning out the sounds of his parents' bickering. He extended his Cheeto covered fingers over to the volume knob he sat too close to when the letter latch on the door opened. Mail tumbled down to a rug he was about to ignore in hopes his mom cleaned up the papers first. He didn’t have to put them away if he never knew they arrived.

The flash of his old last name in bad handwriting demanded otherwise. 

He picked up only his letter and raced to his basement room before drawing attention. The surfboard he should have put away properly toppled over as he ran inside, smacking into his grown out curls. He shook the sand out of his glasses and t-shirt, before making a long jump from his door to his bed. If he could still move from one side of the room to the other, he didn’t need to clean it. These were the unsung rules of preteen housekeeping.

The letters he and Steve miraculously kept constant had grown longer and with slightly less disdain. William was on the fence if he actually missed his idiot or if spite alone kept him writing. He tore into the envelope a bit desperately for someone he didn’t miss.

_9-15-80_

_Dear Asshole,_

_Despite your concern, Tommy has been a way better friend than you ever were because he’s still in Hawkins. His family has been here for four generations and there’s a road called Hagen around here. He’s practically Hawkins royalty. When he and Carol started dating, they had to look at their family trees to make sure they weren’t related._

_Those two better not be dating when we get to high school. I’m sick of being third wheel. You’ll be happy to know nothing happened between me and Becky. It took me a month of strategic flirting to ask her out without Jennifer Andrews getting mad because Kelly Sanders said she had a crush on me. I obviously liked Becky way more. But she dumped me. She said she was mad I didn’t kiss her yet. We’ve only been dating a week! It just seemed a bit fast._

_That sucks about the fighting. If they split, would one of your parents come back to Hawkins? I’m not asking because I want you back or anything. I hear the carnival is hiring if it gets real bad. You could be in the freak show._

_Regards,_

_Steve_

_* * *_

Rushing to fit her mussed up curls back into her hair clip, Jennifer Andrews studied the concrete and bits of trash fallen under the bleachers. Her pink lip gloss smeared over both of their blushing faces, making Steve wonder if it was more rude to point it out or ignore it.

“That was...um...well, I’ll see you in class,” she mumbled and didn’t make eye contact as she picked up her books and left. Her eyes were blue, but didn’t have that spark Steve thought they should have. Maybe it was his fault. The whole time they awkwardly fumbled with each other, he expected it to be different. So what if he settled? He hated starting the school year off being the only one of his friends without a first kiss. The kissing part was okay. Holding onto _someone_ was all he wanted. But no one ever stayed. 

Even Jennifer never lingered. Their relationship was nothing but stilted conversations and imitation. He gave her notes during the passing periods, but she never wrote back beyond shallow answers. Was this how relationships were? Looking at all of the adult couples he knew, Steve expected too much. 

But while his teenage mind failed to figure out what he wanted, he reached for the notes in his backpack. He intended to read Jennifer’s college-ruled origami, but instead grabbed his latest bit of mail.

_Oct. 6th, 1980_

_Esteemed Idiot,_

_You do realize the common denominator to all of your girl drama is you, right? Also, 10 bucks says Becky dumped you because she felt bad for Jennifer. They’ve been friends forever. She rather see Jennifer happy even if it means heartbreak on her end._

_I don’t think my parents are going to split. They always say that, but they find their way back to each other. My mom says they’re passionate. If that’s what love is like, no thanks._

_I thought I’d be more of a romantic with all of the stuff I read. There’s a whole lot of stabbing and spells, but there’s always a love story. I rather have a sword. I’ll be a traveling mercenary killing people for coin and buying all of the ale and bar wenches. And then I’ll get eaten by a dragon. That sounds more fun than falling in love._

_I know you don’t think I’m good at fighting, but I finally punched one asshole, Joey, on my block and now he leaves me and my surfing buddy Rodney alone. Rodney is way cooler than Tommy_ _~~but not as cool as you~~. _ _When you get to come out here, I want to take you surfing. I know you’re scared of sharks, but I promise you’ll enjoy it. Sometimes when I’m sitting out on my board watching the water, I feel like I’m the only person in the world. But I’m not lonely. I’m just me, and for once, I like me._

_Holy shit, I sound like a hippie. Quick, write something stupid so I feel better. It can’t be hard for you._

_Take care, dumbass,_

_William_

_* * *_

Many times in his young life, William was forced to analyze his poor life choices. The starting points were precisely traced back to Steve saying “I have an idea” or “Watch this!” Even with the 2075 miles between them, Steve’s influence still screwed William over. With his stocking feet dangling in the air and his small body trapped under a barbell set, this undoubtedly was Steve’s fault.

The sooner he accepted his life was forever stuck buried beneath 40lbs of shame, the better. William wasn’t allowed to use his dad’s weights but Steve kept going on and on how much he loved visiting the high school gym. In one letter he bragged about reaching 100, and William still had issues getting lids off jars. One tumble off the bench later and he understood the importance of a spotter.

When the embarrassment subsided, he could weasel himself free and get the set restored before his dad returned from the bar. In the meantime, the entrapment was a good time for reflection. Coinciding with every letter delivery, he was spurned into being more sporty or outgoing or _something_ he wasn’t. Being under Steve’s shadow was nothing new. In the past, he was perfectly happy being the brains. William imagined he was jealous of how happy Steve seemed and wanted to emulate it. And then he figured he was trying to stay relevant in Steve’s life.

Imitation and competition felt like excuses and not the root of the problem. The envy and desire to change burned brightest with every mention Steve made of Jennifer or some other stupid girl catching his vapid attention. William never had a girlfriend or even a crush. Was it that simple? He was bothered Steve found someone when he was alone? It’s as deep as he wished to dwell on the thought.

Mustering up enough strength to free himself from the weights, he rolled over to the Muscle & Fitness magazine on the ground. His father made lewd comments about the women adorning the pages assuming William enjoyed their toned bodies. William would slam the magazine shut whenever his gaze wandered to _other_ photos. Tucked in the pages was Steve’s newest letter encouraging the latest disaster.

6-12-81

_Dear Asshole,_

_Greetings from Basketball Camp. I wish I could say I was on a cool campus like Purdue or IU hooking up with college chicks. Instead I'm at Ball U. I can't tell if Muncie always smells like this or if LaFuckette is just extra skanky. Please kill me if I get a scholarship here._

_This camp isn't as fun as Scouts. I like weight training and practicing with other teams, but I don't like how it's ALL we do. At least at Scouts when they woke us up early, we got to do something exciting. And we got to do it together. Remember that time in Brown County when we kidnapped Troop 27's clothes? And then a raccoon got stuck in someone's boxers? They should have been thankful it was just raccoons. The woods have a lot scarier things these days._

_Tommy said it was weird to still be in Scouts, so I didn't go back. Now I miss it. Even without you yelling at me for cheating at badges, I felt like I was doing something important. Or that I was learning how to help people or to be prepared. I liked feeling like I could make others feel safe. Lately, I don't know what I'm doing or what I want. Do you ever feel that way? Like you try to change yourself to be cooler, but then you wonder what was ever wrong about liking the old stuff?_

_All well, at least the food at camp is tolerable. Though while on trash duty, I found a hot dog package that said "Grade E but edible". Is that good or bad? I'll let you know if I go to a rager here. I'm dying to try a kegstand._

_Chirp chirp,_

_Steve_

_* * *_   
  


Hearing a car in the driveway, Steve ran on the wet pavement and nearly toppled into patio furniture. He fixed the wet hair out of his face before slinging a towel over his bare shoulder. To top it all off, he puffed up his chest and practiced his wink in a window reflection. 

“Hey Katie,” he called as he darted into the house. His babysitter settled herself on a couch facing the pool to make sure Steve didn’t drown. Katie never looked up from her Tiger Beat magazine, but Steve always managed to survive himself. “I heard Scott’s car pull up.”

“Oh!” She sat up to adjust her bra and hair. “You know, it’s bedtime anyway. Why don’t you go hang out in your room?”

“It’s only 8:30?” he grumbled as she ran to the front door. As he moved next to the stairs, he experimented with poses against the banister. Happy with a casual lean that both showcased his chest and only slightly less scrawny arms, he waited for Katie’s boyfriend to enter. After giving her a kiss with obscene amounts of tongue, the guest discovered they were being watched.

“Steve! Hey buddy, whatcha doing here?” he sheepishly asked. Scott was Katie’s current flavor of the month, but the first of her line-up of boyfriends Steve cared to remember. He dressed like a beatnik with a 50s edge and styled his hair in a pompadour. Steve thought he was Kenickie in the flesh, his favorite Grease character.

“Hey there, Scott,” Steve replied smoothly, forcing his tone to be lower.

“He’s going to bed,” Katie hissed and protectively corralled Scott to the living room.

“Actually, I wanted to check if Scott wanted to go swimming? I have extra trunks.”

“Bed.”

“Or I just got a new mixtape from my friend in California we can listen to?” His desperation manifested in his voice squeaking. Katie’s eyes shot daggers as a final warning.

“Maybe next time, bud?” Scott shrugged with a kind smile. 

“Okay, yeah! Great! Goodnight Scott!” Counting it a victory, Steve raced up the stairs. Below he heard Katie apologizing.

“It’s cool. Little dude probably gets lonely not having his parents around.” 

Katie snorted, “Yeah, but I swear with as often he butts in he has a crush on me!”

Steve grimaced at the idea. A crush on her? Really? Though Steve may have gotten a little curious with watching her and Scott make-out in the past, he could barely stand her. It must have been some other draw he’d yet to pinpoint.

In his room, he set up his tape player to listen to the latest tracks William sent over. He picked up the recent letter and settled into the music.

_Aug. 21st, 1981_

_Dear Idiot,_

_Stop asking me for advice about Jennifer. Please. You're on and off more than a damn light switch._

_Sorry you couldn't fly out this summer. Things here are still pretty crazy, and my dad doesn't even let me have sleepovers with my local friends. I asked my mom why, but she says he's worried about me. I think she wants me to behave so she doesn't have to deal with Dad when he's mad. Why do we have to be so unhappy when he's just going to be mad at me anyway? I might as do what I want if I'll always be in trouble.  
_

_The concerts last month were killer. There's so many good bands in this town, and you don't have to drive to a cornfield to see them. There's street fairs and beach concerts and I even plan to go to one in a mall next weekend. My mom has been taking me because she's been all mopey and probably doesn't like that I'm growing up. She keeps saying they'll be good memories someday. I didn't tell her Rodney got me into an underground bar, and I got to see some new punk bands I'd never heard of! I included them on the mixtape. Please listen to it and don't be a dickhead normie about it._

_I want to start my own band now. I can't play anything, but I'm cool with being a frontman. I don't mind dressing all crazy or looking weird. If I'm just acting, I'm good at that. It's fun to put on a show and make people think you're something amazing. At the very least, I can write songs about the Silmarillion and be like Led Zeppelin or Rush. And stop giving me shit about fantasy books. If you could actually read, you'd still like them, too! I just like not thinking about life and imagining I'm the badass_ ~~_hero_ ~~ _assassin for once._

_Namárië,_

_William_

_P.S. Scott sounds like a douche._

  
_* * *_

Taking the snoring and the soft clink of toppled beer bottles as his cue, William snuck past his father’s collapsed form on the couch. Everything existed in piles around the house as they denied missing the maternal voice berating them into cleaning. Even the mail collected in front of the door and William needed to sift around to finally find a letter. He held the envelope close to his face, trying to bring the words to focus with his blurred vision. The bruising was minimal, but the glasses didn’t survive the last drunken fit.

Content to see Steve’s return address, William made it as far as the staircase to tear into the card. It wasn’t the usual letter but instead a Christmas card. Not in the mood to think about Christmas or anything sentimental, he skipped the cover to read the scrawling inside.

_Dear William,_

_I won’t use your usual title in case you want to put this with your other Christmas cards._

_In Harrington family news, Ted and Sarah are celebrating their months of negotiations and a successful merger by extending their holiday in London. Thankfully they forced their son into taking the hideous family photo for the card before they left. At least I don’t have a baby sitter this time. I will be using the new heated pool until I turn into a prune._

_I wonder if I can find something to spike eggnog with. I don’t like eggnog, but it can’t be worse. Enjoy the stupid card and Merry Christmas. I’ll write you a real letter before New Year’s._

_Sincerely,_

_Steve_

There was a brief moment where William didn’t hate this holiday. He flipped the card back around and stifled a giggle at the Harrington’s matching sweaters. Steve was crammed in the middle and appeared happy to be playing family. The bit of warmth in William’s heart shifted seeing his friend’s face again. His braces were off and his hair was cut so short he could style it up out of his face. Steve wasn’t as lanky and awkward, either. His eyes were still warm and his smile overwhelming, but enough had changed. 

William couldn’t place it. He never noticed as much about anyone before. Simply the desire to absorb every minuscule, frivolous detail. The way a single loose wave fell across his forehead, the dots of moles across pale skin, the elation of his parted lips. He wanted to reach out and have Steve back by his side. He wanted to pass his fingers through the fallen hair, to chart every perfect flaw in Steve’s skin, to feel those lips against his.

The card fell out of William’s shaking hands, consumed by a dread greater than anything life threw his way. Things he always questioned, likely knew but kept far away, finally made sense. It _terrified_ him. 

Steve was supposed to be his friend. The one person he could depend on, the last bit of good in William’s life he had yet to destroy. And if seeing him again could bring forth every bit of affection he squandered? To put back in place everything broken and buried in hopes of forgetting? He had to escape. He would rather tear that sensation from his chest down to the root than to ever allow it to grow to more.

_* * *_

One of the rare times his parents were home, and cooking no less, Steve lounged on the family room couch pretending to do homework. If he leaned over enough, he could see them moving about the kitchen to the jazzy bars of some 60s track. His father went in for a kiss and was instead greeted with a spoonful of sauce. It splattered all over his father’s startled face, reducing both adults to laughter. Fulfilling his brooding teenager obligations, Steve rolled his eyes and crashed back into a cushion. He continued reading his latest copy of Mad Magazine, but looked glumly at the folded letter marking his last page. He couldn't remember laughing so hard with anyone but William.

William hadn’t sent a new letter in over a month. Steve wrote twice since Christmas and didn’t think about the shift. They’d sometimes send notes without the prompting of the other especially with big news. Steve still bristled to think of the letter back in October when William’s mom skipped town. She didn’t come back to Hawkins, and she apparently wouldn’t have brought her son if she did. Despite Steve’s genius idea to sneak William back out here and keep him hidden in the tree house like a pet alien, he insisted his dad needed him around. 

Something about the last letter gave an out of place worry compounded by the lack of new arrivals. 

_Dec. 15th, 1981_

_Steve,_

_Thanks for the card. It’s the only one I’ve gotten. I hope this gets to you before your birthday. It sucks that I can’t be there with you. I’m sure you’ll have more friends over now, so it'll be a lot more fun than the two of us. You can let them in the tree house. I don't mind.  
_

_I’m starting to miss Hawkins. I think I finally know why. I hate feeling this way. Why can’t I be happy here? Why can’t I be normal and want what everyone else wants? Sorry, I shouldn't talk about this sort of shit. I don’t want to be this way._

_I think for New Years, I just want to be different. I want to not be me. I should go out and get more friends. I need a change. I think I’m the reason I’m not happy here, so I should change that, right?_

_I’m sorry, I don’t want to be a drag on your birthday. You should go out and have some fun, too. Don’t let me hold you back._

_Happy Birthday and take care of yourself,_

_The Asshole_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And back to your regularly scheduled angst.
> 
> (And to answer Steve's curiosity, Muncie, IN was not the source of the smell. LaFollette Complex really was extra skanky.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
